There’s sunlight trickling in through the blinds. His chest is almost too warm under her cheek. Too close to home. One arm slung across her so she’s tight in that soft nook. At the angle of her tipping chin, Harry is (possibly) the most peaceful she’s ever seen him. Smooth-browed, pink mouth parted for each, even breath that swells up and settles under her.
She traces the bird wing that crawls up his collar bone. In justified response, that meaty arm around her cinches.
Last night, Harry tied her wrists behind her back, one palm splayed up across her face from below her lips, and finger-fucked her mouth until she was squirming from the carpet prickling into her knees. Like he was just content to be taking his sweet time, slow burning it, reinscribing the nooks of her wet, pink mouth back to memory. The way it felt around his fingers. The velvety lining along the inside of her cheek. The ridges along her molars on one side. Content to sit back on his haunches at the foot of the bed in his bedroom and watch her splutter around the thick of his middle finger and pointer wedged together, drool seeping out along her lower lip, the corner of her mouth. The way his girl would close her lips around them and suckle when he’d wordlessly nudge with his chin.
Then, he fed her his cock. Sealing it up at the base with his fist, tracing the mushroomed head along the seam of her mouth. The tip of her tongue. What a good girl you are, purred out with his chin ducked. Something clicked in his throat when he swallowed. Still suck cock like you were made for it— and the words sounded like the shape of a taunt in that way he used to do. But it was swallowed up in a sober gloam and his lips stayed in a line. Eyes glinting like burning lily-white firecrackers against midnight, under the shadow of his brows.
Isla traces the naked line between his pecs. It’s where the muscle separates, where that sparse thatch of hair lies over his chest.
Last night, for the first time in six weeks, Harry fucked her.
All spread out on the sheets in his bedroom, wrists caught up in his palm and pulled taut over her head. His tongue seated along her lower lip until she was catching his moans between her teeth. It was like clambering out of hibernation. Tasting kerosene on the air next to an open flame.
It takes a little more effort than she anticipates, but she manages to wrangle her arm out from between them to splay her palm flat across his chest and tuck her chin onto the back of it. Watching him sleep is domesticity in a strange shape they’ve been nursing since the comeback. Letting it form between their palms like wet clay.
Her fingertip runs across his shoulder, and— his chest swells up under her. He takes a long breath in through his nose. The kind that’s aware. When he opens his eyes, he looks so soft, she thinks she could melt into him.
The sound of his skin running against the fabric, petting the spot where he’d landed a blow, does a poor job of stifling the quivering, little sigh that escapes her. The little hiss she steals up through the gaps of her teeth. His mouth purses again— so obviously bridling a crude smirk, now— as his eyes rove her silhouette; the way she’s hung her head low, the way her back swells up and trembles down like butterfly wings. As if to test the theory, Harry grants her another; no warning, aimed for the same spot, just a degree harder than the first had been. This one makes a sharper crack and draws a sweet, little unph from the back of her mouth.
Again, he smooths his palm along the area he hit, cupping his hand and squeezing. Pads of his fingers pressing in to the soft flesh under his touch.
It gives so easily, and the sigh she bleeds as his fingers dig in—
“Is this how you want me to warm you up, little miss?” Harry coos.
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The problem isn’t that he wants her— it’s that he wants her, always. Unfairly, inconveniently.
Even with her standing up by the shoe storage cabinet, hands raking back through that wily hair she’s freed from her messy updo. Skin still kissed pink from the cold, cresting along her cheekbones, the tip of her nose. Nothing about this is inherently raunchy in nature, and still, somehow, he can’t exorcise the pretty, picture-perfect mental image of her, plastered to the wall, back arching beautifully— one soft hip anchored back in his grip; her leggings yanked down to her knees; ass meeting his his pelvis in harsh thunks as he hammers his cock deep. In fact, Harry muses… her wrists caught and seated in that soft arch at the small of her back, caged in his other hand; her cheek flush to the drywall…
All sorts of sweet, little sounds he could peel from her mouth if he were to angle and just barely knock that sensitive, little spot deep inside—
“Thinking about something?”
She’s turned to face him, now, strawberry lips parted on an exhale. He’d love to skim them with his teeth. Lick into her mouth.
Harry blinks. Thinking about something. Many things, actually. None of which are quite family-friendly enough to be applied into a browser without incognito mode toggled on, and all of which involve her pussy fluttering snug around his cock.
A slow, easy smirk spills across his mouth as he shoulders the leather jacket off, even, languid thuds tracing the steps he takes toward her. He drapes the article out across the cabinet as he seeps closer. Then, he stretches one arm up and back, tugging at the hoodie. Discarding the layer rucks up his tee and shows the dark stream of hair that clusters up under his navel and trickles off to hide under his waistband. The dainty, inky shapes of leaves unfurling, the subtle flex of the musculature along his abdomen. Eyes half-mast, he rolls his shoulders and fixes the hem of the shirt back down, balling the cotton piece up in his hands— all for the sake of seeing the undeniable tick in her gaze to the peach-toned skin along his arms, the way the muscles there ripple— and setting it off to the side, just as he’d done with the leather jacket. Less delicately.
Like this, with the negligible gap of space between them, he can hear the way her breaths are coming out; a fine tremor; an aching stutter, like her lungs catch it and squeeze up. The subtle bit of difference— just enough— to note it. To know that if he leaned in, just a little, just enough, she’d meet him halfway. The rubescent smear along her cheekbones no longer just residue off a cold bite— now, a betraying heat staining delicate across the bridge of her nose. The kind that comes from thunder crackling in her pulse, a rhythm he knows he could map with his tongue.
“Several things, actually,” Harry admits. Heat wells in his heavy stare and jade skates to the shape of her mouth. A sliver of pink peers from his own to slink out along his pillowy lips. A reflex. A telltale, charged. The filthy buckling along the corners of his mouth implies obscenity before he even says the words. “Most of them involve you bouncing on my cock.”
Isla’s breath hitches. He watches the little tick in her throat when she swallows, the way her lashes flutter, too quick, too sharp— subtle mannerisms that imply she’s short-circuited in response to the vulgar admission. His wolfish grin spills. Because the thing is, she can pretend to be unaffected, feign indifference, but (unfortunately for her) Harry can read her like a book.
The young woman schools her features down into something unimpressed, but that part comes as no surprise, really.
“What a noble contribution to modern courtship.”
“Mm, I think we’re a little past the courting, considering the way you were riding my fingers last night like your life depended on it,” Harry shifts his weight forward, closer, emphasizing the crude nature behind his words with a wriggle of said fingers. He casts his gaze down to the motion, ring finger and middle digit wedged together, curling as an obscene reminder. Her eyes flit to it. His smirk trickles back apart to show teeth, “but I’ll send flowers to your office if you’re looking for romance. Love letters full of sweet nothings.”
Once again, her swallow betrays her. That little gap where tangled thoughts lodge in the silence. “Oh, yeah? And how would those go?”
“Page one,” he murmurs, the same hand that’d graphically reenacted last night’s debauchery now tracing along the front of her upper arm. The nook in her elbow. Her chest swells. “An extensive breakdown of how sloppy and soft you get when I fuck you open nice an’ slow. Page two: a detailed report of the sounds you make with my cock down your throat.”
At the latter, Isla grimaces.
“I’m swooning,” she tells him flatly, “Anyone ever tell you that you have a way with words?”
He nods, a subtle bob of his head, eyes still glued to the way his fingers skim the threads of her sweater.
“I’ve picked up on it, given you love when I talk you through it. But anyways,” Harry shrugs, “you could always file a complaint.”
“Yeah?”
She can gauge the innuendo in the beat of hesitancy, the dirty way his pink mouth curls sharper around his teeth before he says it, “Right to the back of your throat—”
“And there it is,” Isla deadpans. A little crease worries between her eyebrows as she playfully feigns concern, “Do you ever have a single thought above the waist?”
“Sure.” With his arms crossing over his firm chest, the way they look so meaty, coated in ink, it’s only justified that she looks. An actual injustice, in fact, that this obligatory glance suggests any sort of invitation, really. It’s thinly-veiled, strategic mental torment. “Right now, m’thinking about your pretty, little nipples between my teeth.”
The statement throws her off kilter. Despite the way he keeps his hands tucked over his upper arms, doesn’t reach to tweak one of her nipples through the fabric, the words land like phantom fingertips. Warmth pools up under her skin. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she muscles down any modicum of desire that the confession has involuntarily (on her behalf) lured.
When she hums, the degree of her nonchalance is so flimsy, so gossamer-thin, Harry thinks he could stick a hole through it with his fingers. “One of these days, I’m gonna muzzle you for science.”
“That’s rich,” he volleys back in a purr, “considering you beg me to put my mouth on you every night. How’d it go last night again, babe?”
The man rolls his eyes to the side in faux-thought, theatrically palming over his jaw as if trying to remember. As if watching her mettle self-implode in slow motion, like every little chip at her attempt to stay indifferent— every brazen comment knocking another fracture in— wasn’t enough to entertain him, Harry curls his fists up over his cheekbones, rolling his wrists, sticking his lower lip out into an exaggerated pout as he mocks her. Loudly.
Horribly.
“Oh, please, please, please.”
It’s an obvious, theatrical parody of the events that had transpired the night prior— the way he hadn’t let her cum, in true fashion, fingers sunk deep, lips only ghosting close enough for his breath to hardly kiss her pussy. The (anticipated) way that her resolve crumbled. Spalling like wet sand the longer he spent cruising his thumb along her swollen clit.
The echo of it still hums between her legs, and the memory dredges up a molten heat that wads up in her underbelly, drawing warmth to her cheeks. A retort sits on the back of her tongue. Still, the ridicule, coupled with that heinous higher note his voice takes on, has her face creasing with indignation. She can only scoff, eyebrows raised.
“That’s supposed to be me? Is that supposed to be me?”
He can only watch, eyebrows climbing up his forehead in mirthy appall, as his girlfriend splays her palm out over her crotch (in what only could be interpreted as a crudely bootleg adaption of fellatio— typically pretty excellent as the recipient, might he add), motioning as if guiding along the back of a head, hips pumping forward aggressively. Her typically warm, high voice takes on a comical, lower range, and she soaks the words in a poor imitation of his accent, neck craning back.
“Oh, fuck— yeah— tha’s it. Swallow that cock down just like that.”
Dimples wink awake in his cheeks, and he’s rendered utterly incapable of biting back his peal of laughter at the display.
“You’re fucking filthy,” he teases, eyes narrowing in faux judgement as she continues to roll her hips forward, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Apparently I save all the best tricks for you.”
Harry drums his fingertips against the cabinet. “Only one way to test the theory.”
This is genuinely sickening.
And the thing is, she looks so smug with herself that he could kiss her and not have a care for the inevitable way he’ll topple over. Probably onto her, if he’s being honest with himself. Really, he only restrains himself for the sake of her wellbeing. He watches her as she slows her pace, lets herself coast the last few feet, and comes to a completely controlled, entirely self-satisfied stop only a foot or so ahead of him.
“When?”
Stretching her arms up behind her back (and managing to coast an inch forward as she does it, all facile, and simple, and positively too close to basically enraging), the young woman tucks her chin. Her eyebrows climb up her forehead, and her fingertips fork the hair from her updo into two bundles. She tightens the elastic in her mussed hair as she responds, entirely nonchalantly, “When, what?”
Harry purses his mouth, chaining back a tide of incredulous, wry amusement, narrowing his eyes at her, “When were you going to tell me you’re a closeted Olympian?”
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The next five minutes are spent as follows: Isla glides beside him, hardly moving her limbs, and Harry trails along— albeit, much stiffer— with a deathgrip on the lip of the wall. He wasn’t built for this, he decides. His ancestors did not fight in wars and survive plagues for him to be publicly humiliated by a frozen puddle.
He looks over, just for a moment, gnawing into his cheek. He’s spent the last twenty minutes hobbling up against the wall like he’s learning to use his own feet for the first time, and his girlfriend is skating beside him, backwards, like some kind of brash ice demon.
“This is a betrayal,” he comments pointedly, gaze shifting precariously from his own footing to his bemused, usually-clumsier-than-him girlfriend, “this is worse than when I found out you blocked me on instagram.”
Beside him, Isla tuts. Her voice is slick with half-hearted indignation, “I told you— I was stalking you, I accidentally like a picture from your glorious Tarzan Do era—“
Tarzan Do era. Honestly. He rolls his eyes.
“Which, by the way—“ her fingertips brush over the tufting curls that encircle the shell of his ear. She likes it this way— when it’s grown out a little, when he skips a haircut or two. Enough to curl out in little tendrils over his ear. At the same time, she can’t help but stare longingly at old photographs memorialized on social media— the ones where his hair is long, dangling out over his shoulders majestically— and wonder just how fulfilling it would be to card her fingers through it. Honestly, it’s kind of a blessing he hasn’t caught her red handed, wistful gaze cast to the LED.
Oh, what could've been.
“Why haven’t we brought that back? And, anyways, I didn’t want you to think I was a stalker—“
“Which you were and are—“
Isla purses her lips, blinking innocently, “And so… I blocked you. Perfectly adequate, reasonable explanation.”
Harry snorts. He stops, then turns his chin to look at his endearing— creepy— little girlfriend. “You are a stalker. You’re my own, little stalker. Accept it, own it. But—“ his brows crinkle and his jade sticks to her stationary feet as the true fact of the matter buoys to the forefront of his mind, “you’re distracting me from the real issue at hand. Treason. This is treason. We are supposed to be in this together. Have you never seen High School Musical?”
At the childish— admittedly, semi-applicable reference— Isla makes an amused sound. Instead of tackling the actual point he hones on, she digs in on the instagram situation they’ve been unpacking, “You’re telling me you’ve never insta-stalked someone before? Ever?”
“No. Because someone insta-blocked me before I could exercise the opportunity—“ momentarily, the man glances at her skates, only to discover that she’s doing a cross-over motion as she glides backwards beside him. He frowns. “…How are you doing that with your feet?”
Then he says, “I think my shoes are broken.”
“They’re skates,” Isla deadpans, hardly managing to curb the amalgamous layers of emotion that threaten to ripple along her features (horror, worry, shit-eating mirth)— as with very, very little warning, her boyfriend skids on the heel-most edge of said skates, ice crackling shallowly under his broken shoes. He only manages to catch himself with a graceless one-two hop and the very fortunate proximity of a wall.
This is all done by the grace of God, and God only, by the way. Somewhere, an angel has its glowing, porcelain fingers tucked up into the back of the man’s hoodie, dangling him up like a string puppet— and somewhere, a different angel is channeling Isla the strength to not shepherd this man into further humiliation.
“Right,” the brunette scowls, lifting his chin up slightly from his hunched posture. Blatantly still gathering his bearings.
One soft, stray curl has sloppily flopped over his forehead in the process, and his chest swells and falls dramatically at the narrowly evaded, near-death experience. Like this, with a ruckle between his pleated eyebrows, the stubborn, pillowy pout his teeth-bared grimace thaws into, and rubescence smearing along the crests of his cheekbones uncharacteristically, he may just look the cutest Isla’s ever seen him.
Harry motions out with the hand not chalk white-knuckling at the ledge for emphasis, “They’re broken.”
She can’t choke back her giggle at his words and the unyielding declaration glazing them. Helping him straighten out with her arm stretched out to share balance— rolling her lips into her mouth when Harry wobbles, centering himself— Isla’s shoulders rise up nonchalantly, “Maybe it’s user error.”
Harry groans. Annoyance laces the words as he parrots them, hardly over what can only be described as a mutter under his breath, “User error.”
It's definitely user error.
Isla sticks to his side, just slowly circling the rink. She’s not going to ask him to hold her hand— not when he looks like he’s negotiating a safe exit method with God himself, entirely still too focused on the wall and the pattern his footsteps have melted into. And she doesn’t mind— not really. But the slow nature of their pace does catch up with her— and the whole thing starts to feel a little frigid. Fast.
Despite the whole concept behind ice skating, moving fast is actually an excellent deterrent for the imminent chill that goes hand in hand with spinning circles on a frozen puddle. The AC unit ice rinks always operate under— a standard of a perpetual ice box, not unlike a commercial grade freezer— are no help. The young woman doesn’t mind slowing down for her boyfriend— not inherently. But—
A devious thought sparks up behind her skull when she chances a glance at him from the corner of her eye.
As soon as her fingers wriggle in under the neckline of his hoodie, pressing up to the soft, furnace-like skin of his throat, he wrenches his head back like a cat that’s gotten its face shoved through a slice of sourdough. The consequent hiss from between his teeth is only in accordance. Her mouth twitches as she bites back a bout of giggles and retracts her hands. The scowl he wears is borderline menacing, brows pinched with the zapping maelstrom stirred by the unfavorable motion, strawberry mouth twisted into a frown.
“Christ. You— fucking— What’s the matter with you?” he bites, eyes narrowed to slits. Honestly, it’s comical. She can only bat her lashes innocuously as his inkpools flash from her face, to her fingers, and back, tone agitated and borderline hysterical, “Are you trying to kill me? I could’ve died. I could’ve just lost my balance and died right there. Cracked my head open and everything.”
“I’m seeking warmth,” she tells him flatly, “Like a Victorian street urchin.”
“Victorian street— Seeking warmth?” Harry spits, “You’re seeking warmth?“
“It’s a survival mechanism.”
“Sticking your icicles onto my neck with no warning is not a survival mechanism, you little heathen,” he argues, warding off the burble of amusement in order to appear more stern, “It’s attempted murder.”
Rifting the gap a little wider, still turned to face him as she skates backwards, Isla raises her hand to press her fingers to her thumb— a universal, mocking symbol intended to imply that he’s just talking to talk. “Yap, yap, yap, Drama, drama— honestly,” she plants her hands onto her hips, raising one shoulder cattily, “this isn’t a very convincing performance of your usual theatrics, Mr. Styles. Do better.”
Harry squares his features. Despite the risk, his arm stretches out, intent on hooking her by the forearm and barreling her back against the breadth of his chest, “I’ll show you a convincing performance—“
Only, he doesn’t anticipate the wide expanse of space between them as, with little effort, Isla arcs her blades in a swizzle, widening the gap. He can only claw out at her, knees bent, like a deranged, helpless madman.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she wags her finger playful, corners of her lips upturned just slightly. When she goads him, a note of unbridled, almost breathlessly giddy mirth tails the words, “Better catch me, first.”
Harry blinks. His hand is still stretched out to her. She is so, so far away. A grimace forms over his mouth when it registers that, in these circumstances, he is unfortunately, uncharacteristically, stranded without the upper hand. Indefinitely. “You’re kidding. This isn’t fair.”
“This isn’t fair,” she chimes mockingly. By her sides, her hands form into fists, and she stomps her foot against the ice with a blunt clack. The motion only serves to take her further back. Harry glares. Isla taps the pad of her index to her bottom lip in faux-thought as she continues, “Mm, maybe not. Better start using that handy kick-off method. I bet you wish you had that walker now, don’t you?”
“You vile, cheeky, little brat,” Harry starts, voice dangerously low and even, “When I get my hands on you—“
“Oh-ho-ho,” she volleys— a clear ridicule as she juts her chin and puffs her chest— “You’ll what? You’ll do what? I’d like to see you catch me first.”
something about tdiag harry and his and yns relationship after they know each other and it’s out in the open. domestic dominance. him domming her in her own house.
I did a little blurb on the coffee funishment thing I talked about a little bit here!! :D
WC: 896
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In one fist cradling a handle, fawn liquid with a plume of steam curling up out of the mug. It’s chalky— there’s too much creamer, and probably too much sugar. He knows the way she likes it. In the other—
Harry blinks.
Isla gnaws into her cheek, the way she does when she’s trying to get a rise without outwardly chortling, like she’s trying to stifle a peal of laughter before executing the punchline of a joke.
“Very funny,” he hums.
The other mug is stuffed with unground coffee beans. The corners of her mouth twitch. She sticks it into his direction; an outstretched offering of an unbrewed, caffeinated concoction in its raw form. Her lips wobble.
He’s awake.
“It’s your coffee,” Isla murmurs. Clears her throat when the statement garbles over poorly cached mirth.
He takes the mug, and her serious mien cracks like a heap of bedrock crumbling, giggling as his shoulders climb and fall on an exaggerated sigh. If she wasn’t so amused, something would probably itch in her guts at the sight of him denuded and exasperated, shirtless and sleep-soft under the eiderdown.
The way he scrubs over his face and stares into the mug like he’ll miraculously discover actual coffee — based on his intended request — at the bottom if he just stares long enough, the edges of his mouth ticking in lopsided amusement (he abysmally masks), just has her laughing harder.
“You’re a fucking brat,” Harry tells her, finally, bobbing his head, and her tummy swells with her hiccupy cackles— his head twists as he toggles over his phone— “It is— eight in the morning, you little menace. D’you just… plan these things the night before?”
Isla shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He cocks his head. A soft come hither with a head of soft curls— she obliges, and he sweeps her mug from her hands, carefully, grappling over the top of the searing ceramic like it’s a balmy warmth to the pads of his fingers. Sets it onto the nightstand on a coaster.
“Well. You can go ahead and eat one of these,” Harry tells her, cradling her close by the small of her back and nudging the cold cup of coffee beans between them.
Isla sputters. “What?”
“Well, what did you want me to do with it?”
“It’s— your coffee,” Isla parrots, pointedly, muffling her speech with another snort.
Harry hums. He blinks and tells her, slowly, “Eat one.”
“No,” she squawks indignantly, wriggling reflexively in his hold when his forearm cinches.
He loosens, the corners of his lips curling in a deceitfully sangfroid simper, “No?” And then—
Isla makes a little sound when he sets the coffee beans onto the nightstand beside her own confiscated beverage and manhandles her into pitching over onto the mattress, clambering up onto his knees with surprising speed for the hour on what’s meant to be a languorous weekend.
“Did you just tell me no?”
Isla laughs nervously, stuttery, and dim, and smothered against the comforter when he digs his knee into the small of her back, hiking up her sleep-shirt (an oversized keepsake borrowed to never be returned from his own collection) enough for her panties to peek.
“…No?”
An indignant sound mottles her paroxysm when Harry pins her arm behind her back, slotting the bones in her wrist into a posture of filched obedience.
“Hm?”
A cry, then— something that starts sharp out of surprise and thaws into a soft hum when he swats over her backside with his free hand enough times to make her whine. Not enough to make it hurt. She twists her head over the duvet when he pauses, just enough to catch a glimpse of his torso stretching and his arm reaching—
She gasps, like a breath before letting a lapping salt chuck swallow her down, and contorts (with little leverage on account of the knee stapling her to the bed). Isla flails and squeals when he fingers a coffee bean past her lips. Pure sadism. It’s bitter — the amalgam of uncooked coffee and his cruel mirth, meshed with his skin stroking over her taste buds. She nearly bites—
She sputters as he tucks his fingers out, gauging her aim, and spits it back onto the blanket. He makes a disappointed hum, and she wriggles under him.
“You’ve made a mess, well done,” Harry sighs. He plucks the sloppy remnants from the sheets, “What have you done that for? …Perfectly good coffee.” and sets it onto the nightstand.
Her face creases. He’s a mean, mean man. She lets him know as much, brows pinched, and Harry hums something amused in response, digging the weight of his knee back into her when he reaches over and culls her coffee.
She gets just enough of a peer to note the way his nose scrunches before he clears his throat and tells her, “Fuck me, that’s sweet.”
Isla groans. The mug returns to the nightstand with a clink. He presses a palm over her shoulder blade and murmurs, “Coffee. Black. You know the way I like it. Get it right this time. And,” his hand meanders from her back to her crown when he nudges her face into the soiled spot she’s left with her saliva, garbled with hints of a lax grin, “You’re going to clean this up, or I’m going to spank you raw.”
TDIAGrry: I mean we could go with so many here. But we’re gonna go with, vaguely, marks.
Which is a very broad niche, but. This dude loves marks. Petechiae smearing skin when he suctions over the flesh. Teeth marks that mimic the curls of his two rows when he bites, welting handprints with miraculously crisp borders — anytime he’s touched something and broken it, just a little bit. Just enough for a lasting, palpable impact. Whether he leaves it with his hands, his incisors, or some other object.
Trivia!Harry: Erotic asphyxiation. You’ll get it eventually. This mfer loves to collar over the column of a throat with his massive hand. Loves the way he feels the vague thud of a pulse in his cupped palm. It’s sort of a paradox, because the rest of him is so soppy sweet. Pulpy. Nice. But then he’ll consensually cradle over a jugular and ogle that initial, brief, instinctual burst of panic swelling in someone’s eyes and—
You get it.
Vamprry: It’s easy to go with blood for a vampire, or biting, but we’re gonna go with belly bulging.
Vamprry has seen it (and probably) done it all, and there’s one thing that always gets him going, and that’s when he’s bullied his cock in so deep that he can see the shape of himself under the soft flesh of a tummy. The thought that he’s stuffed himself so far inside, got his partner so full, that he’s literally rearranging something within her enough to descry it—
But also, biting.
RideTheT!ger: Multi-penetration. Whether it’s dp with his cock and a toy, or whether he’s wriggling in a finger alongside whatever he’s stuffed his partner with, Tiger is simply a sucker for multi-penetration. There’s something hot about the stretch, the hints of reaction from his partner, the desperation for more and/or the way his partner is simply willing to endure to please him. It’s not for everyone, but when Tiger finds someone that’s open to it and enjoys it as much as he does, well. It’s game over.
Shibari Man: The obvious one is bondage, but we’re gonna go with gagging.
Shibari!H loves to watch someone gag during sex. He loves making someone gag. Whether it’s with his cock, plunged a smidge too deep over the back of a tongue or literally just his fingers stuffing up to the back of someone’s mouth, gagging is his thing. His achilles heel, if you will. Because he can be the most composed mfer with the most ludicrous ataraxy, even during sex, and the second someone gags over him????? Goodnight.
Honorable mentions:
Gladiator: Breeding kink. You’ll see.
Piraterry: Blindfolds. Piraterry loves seeing his partner vulnerable, and with their senses heightened and one of their senses robbed, they are pretty vulnerable for his affections. Pair that with a binding of some sort? Yep. He’s got a gift wrapped up all pretty for him in bed.
could we hear a bit about harry and isla’s dynamic once they’re in a relationship? i feel like he would still be a dom even in an out of sex setting 🫣
OOOO yeah he’s definitely still dommy when they start seeing each other outside of Indulge, and I think he ends up being dommy even in an out of sex setting, too!! I feel like they end up going for more of a 24/7 type deal and the dom/sub sort of dynamic starts to leak into their everyday lives (I’ll be doing extras on patreon going into this more). But I think he does subtle things without even realizing at first like always having a hand on her when they’re out and about, or scolding her for opening the door instead of letting him do it, or giving her The Look if she’s doing something out of line ((Like one time they were eating out and she started throwing chips at him across the booth and then yk. The Look).
It’s like, they’re not innately dommy things, but they are. Eventually, their relationship sort of just evolved and they talked and talked and talked and figured out what worked for them!!
When it comes to the 24/7 thing with rules, and punishments, and etc, a BDSM dynamic is infinitely flexible, so they end up finding what works for them over time, like I said. And they talk about EVERYTHING. Because safe, sane, and consensual(!!)
There’s hard rules and there’s “bendy” rules — breaking “bendy” rules is an outlet for Isla to let Harry know she wants a certain type of attention, and “bendy” rules earn funishments that aren’t pre discussed, ie lighter spanking, more sexual forms of punishment like orgasm denial, overstimulation, etc. Harry is very mean dom but he’s also a huge brat tamer, so he’s got a ton patience as opposed to the type of dom that expects outright obedience, and Isla is a huge brat when it comes to subbing, so the “bendy” rules let them explore that more — they’re sort of expected to be broken, to an extent! For example, a “bendy” rule that Isla always seems to break has to do with her attitude/sarcastic tendencies. If Harry asks her to grab him a cup of coffee in the morning since she’s getting up out of bed before him to get her own, she comes back with two cups— a cup of coffee for herself and a cup of literal coffee beans for Harry. Trying to get a rise. Which results in Harry rolling his eyes and telling her she can go ahead and eat a coffee bean if she wants to be a brat (to which Isla incredulously squawks, “No!”) and he teases her about her saying no to him and spanks her a few times. ((Also he steals the coffee she brought in for herself, and then complains and gives it back with his nose crinkled because it’s too sweet.))
Hard rules are pre-negotiated rules in place that earn deliberate, unpleasant corrections that fit the infraction (that are also heavily pre discussed — I literally can’t emphasize enough that Isla and Harry always talk everything over and communicate). The rules are all stuff that Isla and Harry have both decided will improve something for Isla in some way, like self care rules, rules regarding punctuality, etc, and they’re always open to be edited or revised! For example, a hard rule that she has is put her shoes away when she gets home ((because she’s tripped over them 64838483948839493 times leaving them out in piles)) and if she doesn’t do it then there’s a punishment to follow that isn’t any fun, because it’s intended to alter a behavior. Since she didn’t focus on this tiny detail that would take literally a split second to do, she then has to write lines and spend much longer focusing on “arbitrary” details. So, she has to write 100 lines really neatly in a specific layout, and if she messes up on any of the lines she has to start over.
Honestly, the worst “punishment” for Isla is being told that Harry is disappointed with her. Like. Ouch. And he only does it for the hard rules that she’s broken, when he really is disappointed. It’s pretty effective. Other super unpleasant punishments that Isla has (that they’ve both talked over and agreed upon) are cold showers, harder spanking sessions, being forced to stand in a corner for an allotted time period with no attention, etc. It’s all stuff that fits the crime and Harry gets pretty creative with it sometimes (like she’d been told 748848593943 times to clean up after herself if she was baking in the kitchen, and she doesn’t clean up for the 648839493th time, so he has her eat a crumbly food in the guest bedroom on the bed and has her sleep there, and the crumbs are super annoying because she can’t get them all the way off the bed — very creatively sadistic on Harry’s part). Which isn’t really sexy per say, but it’s more about the power exchange than a sex thing most of the time for them!! Although it does play into their sex lives!!
This is super important — they also still have their safeword in place!! One to pause what’s going on and another to pause the dynamic altogether, and to just be Harry and Isla, whether it’s during an argument, etc. ((They don’t ever yell at each other. They just converse and disagree dhdjdj)).
Anyways, this might sound a little cuckoo for cocoa puffs, but they are super happy with each other!! Their dynamic is built on loads of trust and communication, and they are both really, really good to each other. Absolutely everything that they engage in is entirely consensual! This felt like a huge amalgam of dom/subby punishments but even with their 24/7 dynamic they are just chilling with each other and hanging out and being a normal couple 99% of the time :D
Ugh thinking about the cold shower thing and the way H would be so soft with her after, just standing out there with a towel spread open that she burrows into, and he’d wrap her up in it and cuddle her and hold her so tight and warm and kiss on the top of her head :( and just be like “You’re such a good girl, you know that?” :( The aftercare would hit sooooo hard!! “Let’s get you warmed up. Gonna kiss on every inch of you.”
((Also thinking about the way Isla would initially fight him tooth and nail on it HDJDJDJ
Isla: “What if I get hypothermia?”
Harry: “You won’t.”
Isla: “How would you know!! I take scalding showers, this is going to be so bad for my body.”
Harry: “It’s actually really good for your body. Tons of health benefits.”
Isla: “Not for me!!”
Harry: “They are good for you. They just don’t feel nice, and that’s why it’s a punishment. S’not supposed to feel nice.”
